Saying Goodbye- Part one

1-2-3 Say... nothing

Last weekend I hiked into site, for what I figured was the last time, with my backpack stuffed with 25 lbs of rice, 10 lbs of beans all the makings for a thank-you meal for my community plus 5lbs of hard candy and a piñata supposedly formed after Barney but really resembling a pink marshmellow. The past 4 months or so of splitting myself between my community and the volunteer coordinator job had left me with a desire for closure. I wanted to say goodbye and thank you to my community and leave behind the nagging need to spend time there.

I was mildly suprised that no one in my community had taken a larger role in planning my despedida, but chalked it up to my absence the last couple of months. So I planned the party sola, my host mom said she´d do all the cooking.

The morning of I opened my doors and sold all my belongings. A radio, old karosin lamps, socks, mirror, bed, pots pans spoons. Most went for mere coins, and I felt a little like I was playing store.

I helped my mom cook by cutting onions. She always gives me that job. We joked that the food would be good and salty due to the gringa´s tears.

To my suprise about 60 people showed up ( I hadn´t expected nearly as many). We played some games the kids broke the piñata and scrambled around for the candy covered in flour. I think the adults enjoyed it as much as the kids did. ¨Down low. It´s on the ground!¨they´d yell when the piñata was too high for them to reach. Then they´d slap their theighs and laugh as the kids wacked the ground with the stick.


I made a little speech thanking my communtiy, encouraging them to continue en la lucha to achieve their goals. I told some stories about stupid things I had done that garnered some laughs. then I envited others to speak, if they so desired.

Everyone spoke in Ngabere, and too bad, I didn´t understand much. But I had the context, right? Probably good things were being said, a lot about god and... gringas. My friend Rosa, the grandma above (harmless right), also stood to speak. I smiled and nodded as she spoke in Ngabere, pretending, as I always do, to understand. But this woman is hated by nearly everyone, and she is rather spiteful, but she and I have always gotten along. Basicly, she likes to talk shit in very public places. So it crossed my mind to be concerned. But, eh, what could be done at this point?

She gave me a charca for my cell phone, a slobbery kiss that was like she was licking my cheek and said in spanish, You are like my daughter! Then she sat down.

Later that night my host mother, knowing I hadn´t grasped a word, filled me in. She had taken advantage of the moment to insult all who were there, calling them her enemies and worse. Later her grown daughter and another woman got in a fist fight. I didn´t see it, fortunately. So I just laughed about it with my mom in the kitchen.

Later that night I sat in the darkening kitchen as my host mom cut off the green rinds of bananas and threw them in the pot over the fire. I tried to stamp all those smells permently on my nostrils. I ate one last wonderful meal with them in the dark. Three of my six host sisters lay stretched out on the table where I ate, passed out after the day´s activities. The youngest, Lilly lay in the fetal possition on her stomach with her little rump pushing into the air and her chubby face smooshed against the table. We ate by flashlight. Boiled green bananas with beans. And I tried to thank them for two years of making me their family. But Ngabe culture is not a culture of thanking. Earlier that day, as I had dished up 60 plates of food and handed them to my friends not one person said thank you. Not one! And I didn´t think anything of it. There is no Ngabe word for thank you. So perhaps, hopefully, it is just implied. Understood.



I went to bed thinking, ¨well, that was a good end. It will feel good to leave.¨

But wait! my host father is planning a secound good-bye party in July. So I get to do it all again. Which, aside from being funny, isn´t that bad after all.